Fear Gan Ainm cct. (1650)

I—Éagcaoineaḋ

Innsim fios is ní fios bréige,
Le ar súiliḃ ḋúinne ba léar é,
Le mo ċluasaiḃ ċualas féin é,
An ní adeirim ní ċeilim ar aon ċor.

Lá dá raḃas ar maidin im’ aonar,
Is an Róiṁ ar ór-ċnoc Ċéaṗais,
Sínte ar leic ag sileaḋ déara,
Lán de ġruaim ar uaiġ na nGaeḋeal-ḟear;

Fá raiḃ dias dob’ ḟial fá ṡéadaiḃ,
Le n-ar ġráḋṁar áḋḃar m’éagnaiġ,
Iarla mór Ṫíre Eoġain Néill-ṁir,
Is Ó Doṁnaill na n-ór-lann ḃfaoḃraċ.

An tráṫ do ṡaoileas sgíṫ do ḋéanaṁ,
Cia do ċífinn de ṁaoilinn an tsléiḃe,
Aċt maiġdean áluinn ḃráġaid-ġeal ṗéarlaċ
Do ḃain bárr go bráṫ de Ḃénus

Is de Ṁinerḃá i ndeilḃ ‘s i ndéanaṁ:
Is maiṫ do sníoṁaḋ a braoiḋte caola,
Do ḃí an t-ór i meaḋón a céiḃe,
‘S do ḃí an sneaċta ‘s an lasair na héadan.

Aduḃairt sí liom san mball gcéadna
De ġlór milis ba ḃinne ‘na téada
Druidim suas ó uaiġ na dtréan-ḟear,—
Ba fada ag caoi ‘s a croiḋe dá réabaḋ.

Fá ḋeireaḋ ṫiar i ndiaiḋ a saoṫair,
Do ṫóg sí uaill ba truaġ le héisteaċt
Do ḃainfeaḋ deoir go leor ar cléirċiḃ,
Agus osnaḋ ar na cloċaiḃ dá mb’ḟéidir.

Leis an maoiḋeaḋ sin do ṡín sí a géaga,
‘S ag dearcaḋ suas go cruaiḋ ar néallaiḃ,
Do laḃair sí le Ríġ na Spéire,
Lán de ċanntlaṁ insa réim so:

A Ḋé ṁóir, an deoin liḃ m’éisteaċt,
Nó an miste ceirt ḃeag éigin
Do ċuaiḋ i ndaingean ar ṁacaiḃ léiġinn
D’ḟiafruiġe ḋíḃ, ó’s díḃ is léar í?

Ó táim ar mearḃall i n-ainḃfios sgéala,
Óir má’s ionann do ṫuill gaċ aon neaċ
Coir na sinnsear do rinne an ċéad-ḟear,
Áḋaṁ ar n-Aṫair do meallaḋ le hÉaḃa,

Créad fá ndíoltar pian na péine
Ar aon ṗór níos mó ‘ná a ċéile?
Créad fá saorṫar gaċ daor éigceart,
Is naċ mbíonn saor naċ ndaorṫar é seal?

Créad fá gcroiċtear boiċt gan aon ċoir,
Agus slioċt na loċt i dtoice an tsaoġail so?
Créad é an tóḃaċt naċ sgriostar éirciġ
‘S gur buan a dtóir i ndeoiḋ na gcréidṁeaċ?

Créad naċ ḃfeanntar clann Lútéaruis,
‘S clann Ċríost dá gclaoiḋe go n-éagaid?
Créad naċ truaġ na huain dá gcréaċtaḋ
‘S na mic tíre ag inġréim’ an tréada?

Créad an ceart fá leagṫar Éire
‘S le n-a gleoiḋ naċ mór go n-éistṫear?
Créad an ċóir naċ dtógṫar Gaeḋeala,
Dream nár ḋiúlt do’n Dúileaṁ géilleaḋ?

II—Tairngire

Ní ḃiaiḋ ceangal le Sacsaiḃ ar aon neaċ,
Ní ḃiaiḋ caidreaṁ le hAlban’ċaiḃ maola,
Ní ḃiaiḋ marṫainn ar eaċtrainn i nÉirinn,
‘S ní ḃiaiḋ cead coimirce ar ṫeangain an Ḃéarla.

Biaiḋ an buaḋ ag sluaġ na nGaeḋeal-ḟear
Ar ċlainn Ċailḃín ċleasaiġ ḃradaiġ ḃréagaiġ,
Biaiḋ a n-uaisle i n-uaċtar ar éirciḃ
Is gáir fá ṫoll i ndiaiḋ ċlainn’ Lútéaruis.

Biaiḋ a gcreideaṁ gan ṁilleaḋ gan traoċaḋ,
Biaiḋ an Eaglais ag teagasg a dtréada,
Bráiṫre, easpuig, sagairt, ‘s cléirċiḃ,—
‘S biaiḋ síṫ go deoiḋ ‘na ḋeoiḋ ag Éirinn.

Guiḋim-se Dia, má’s mian leis m’éisteaċt,
Guiḋim Íosa do-ċíos an méid so,
‘S an Spiorad Naoṁṫa arís d’aon-toil,
Muire Ṁáṫair is Pádraic déid-ġeal,

Colum croiḋe agus Bríġid Naoṁṫa,
Go ndaingniġe siad Gaeḋil dá ċéile,
‘S go dtigiḋ ḋíoḃ an gníoṁ so ‘ḋéanaṁ:
Gaill do ḋíbirt is críoċ Ḃanba ‘ṡaoraḋ!

An tráṫ ċríoċnuiġ an tsiḋ-ḃean ṗéacaċ,
Mar aduḃras ar dtús an méid so,
Iar mbualaḋ a bas go prab fá ċéile
Do ċuaiḋ sí suas de ruaig  go néallaiḃ;

Agus d’ḟág sí mise ar leic im’ aonar,
Sínte ar ṫuama-uaiġ na nGaeḋeal-ḟear,
Gan spracaḋ gan ġlór gan treoir gan aon ċor,
Lán de ḃrón tré sgeon a sgéalta.

Anonymous (1650)

I—Lamentation

I tell a tale and no lying tale,
With mine own eyes it was clear to me,
With mine own ears I myself heard it,
The thing I speak I speak aloud.

One morning that I was alone
In Rome upon the golden hill of Cephas,
Stretched upon a flagstone shedding tears,
Full of grief upon the grave of the Gaels,

Under which were two once generous in gift-giving,
To whom had been dear the cause that I lamented,
The mighty Earl of Tyrone of Niall’s race
And O’Donnell of the keen-edged golden blades.

And when I thought to rest me there,
Behold, I saw from the hill’s bare side
A maid most lovely, with throat of pearly-white,
Ah, lovelier far than Venus’ self,

Or than Minerva in form and shape:
Most daintily fashioned were her delicate limbs,
Gold burned in the depth of her hair,
And there shone a flame through the snow of her cheek.

And on that spot she spake and bade me,
With sweet voice more melodious than strings,
To rise up from the heroes’ grave—
Then long she wept as with heart in anguish.

At length, after all her sad ado,
She raised a lament most pitiful to hear,
That would make even hard clerics weep—
Yea, wring a sigh from the stones, if possible.

And with that outcry she stretched her hands,
And looking sternly up to the heavens,
She spake to the King of the Firmament,
Full of reproach, in these words:

‘Mighty God, wilt Thou deign to hear me,
And may I ask Thee one little question
That hath baffled all the sons of learning—  
May I ask Thee, for to Thee ‘tis clear?

‘Since I am at fault, without knowledge of the subject,
If everyone must equally expiate
Original sin which the first man committed,
Adam our father, deceived by Eve,

‘Why, then, is the penalty exacted
From one race more than another?
Why is every unjust churl made free,
And every freeman made a slave?

‘Why are the poor crucified though crimeless,
While the tribe of sinners enjoyeth the world’s goods?
Why are not heretics extirpated
Tho’ stubbornly they hunt down true believers?

‘Why is not Clann Luther flayed,
While Christ’s clan is persecuted unto death?
Why no pity for the lambs that are torn,
While the wolves harry the flock?

‘With what justice is Ireland overthrown,
And her cry scarcely listened to?
Why are not the Gaels exalted,
A race that never denied homage to the Creator?’

II—Prophecy

‘No man shall be bound unto England
Nor hold friendship with dour Scotsmen;
There shall be no place in Ireland for outlanders,
And no recognition for the English speech.

‘Victory shall be to the host of the Gael
Over Calvin’s clan—the trickster, the thief, the liar;
Their nobles shall triumph over heretics,
And shout at the routing of Clan Luther.

‘Their faith shall not fall nor ebb,
The Church shall teach her flocks,
Friars, bishops, priests, and clerics—
And ever after Ireland shall have peace.

‘I pray God, if He deign to hear me,
I pray Jesus Who seeth all this,
And the Holy Ghost again with one will,
Mother Mary and Patrick White-Tooth,

‘Kindly Colum and Holy Brigid,
That they may weld the Gael together,
And that thus they may compass this deed:
The banishment of the Gall and the freeing of Ireland.’

When the queenly apparition had made an end,
As I said at the beginning, of these words,
Quickly she struck her two palms together,
And with an upward sweep disappeared in the clouds;

And she left me on a flagstone alone,
Stretched upon the tomb of the Gaels,
Lifelifess, mute, dazed, motionless,
Full of grief from the terror of her tale.

These are two extracts from ‘The Roman Vision,’ written in 1650 by an unknown poet. In the entire poem there are eighty quatrains and a ceangal. The poet imagines himself upon the graves of the Irish princes (Hugh O’Neill and Rory O’Donnell) in Rome. The spirit of Ireland manifests herself to him, and in impassioned language recalls the heroic struggle of the Irish for freedom and its disastrous issue, under Tudors, Stuarts, and Cromwellians. She dwells lovingly on the figures of Owen Roe O’Neill and the soldier bishop Heber MacMahon. Finally, she promises victory if the Irish only hold together. The savage hatred expressed for the English and for the Protestant sectaries will be understood when it is remembered that the poem was written within a year after Drogheda and Wexford, and that it was intended as a stimulus to the Irish in their stubborn stand against the Cromwellian generals.